Folk ballads and Literary Ballads

 Narrative poetry is different than lyric poetry.  List three characteristics of lyric poetry:  1.  2.  3.

 Tells a story  Includes dialogue  Contains elements of plot  Sometimes has more than one speaker  There are two main types of narrative poetry

 A type of narrative poetry  Folk Ballads:  Were not meant to be written down  Relied heavily on sound devices and heavy rhyme  Told a story to be passed on through generations  Read along to the following folk ballad, “Lord Randall” while listening to the song of the same name

"O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son? And where ha you been, my handsome young man?" "I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.” "An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? And wha met ye there, my handsome young man?" "O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.“ "And what did she give you, Lord Randal, My son? And wha did she give you, my handsome young man?" "Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fein wad lie down."

 "And what gat your leavins, Lord Randal my son? And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?" "My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fein wad lie down.“  "And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? And what becam of them, my handsome young man? "They stretched their legs out and died; mother mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.“  "O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" "O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and fain wad lie down."

 "What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?" "Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down."  "What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?" "My gold and my silver; mother mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down."  "What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?" "My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down."  "What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?" "I leave her hell and fire; mother mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." 

 “Lord Randall” is an anonymous folk ballad that was meant to be spoken or sung  In “Lord Randall” the son is surprisingly poisoned by a lover  One could say that the theme of “Lord Randall” is that one should always remain cautious  There is another type of narrative poetry called a Literary Ballad

 Possess many of the same qualities as folk ballads, except they are...  Meant to be written down  Therefore, they do not rely as heavily on rhyme, refrain and repetition  Repetition helps to create rhythm, stress the repeated words and help to make the piece easier to memorize…

 All in green my love went riding  by e.e. cummingse.e. cummings  *All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. *four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the merry deer ran before. *Fleeter be they than dappled dreams the swift sweet deer the red rare deer. *Horn at hip went my love riding riding the echo down into the silver dawn. *four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the level meadows ran before. *Softer be they than slippered sleep the lean lithe deer the fleet flown deer. *Four fleet does at a gold valley the famished arrows sang before. *Bow at belt went my love riding riding the mountain down into the silver dawn. *four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the sheer peaks ran before. *Paler be they than daunting death the sleek slim deer the tall tense deer. *Four tall stags at a green mountain the lucky hunter sang before. *All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. *Four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before.

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: He is all pine and I am apple-orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

 The Sound of the Sea   Henry Wadsworth Longfellow   The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep, And round the pebbly beaches far and wide I heard the first wave of the rising tide Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep; A voice out of the silence of the deep, A sound mysteriously multiplied As of a cataract from the mountain's side, Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep. So comes to us at times, from the unknown And inaccessible solitudes of being, The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul; And inspirations, that we deem our own, Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing Of things beyond our reason or control.first SONNET!!!